NaPoWriMoDay 22 ~ A Blackbird in the Garden

A blackbird in the garden

~

A blackbird came along the path.

I watch for him each morning.

I throw sultanas from a jar,

a favourite for his coming.

~

He pecks them up but seeks for something living.

He bites a worm clean in half and eats the flesh with relish.

He let a beetle pass in peace. He must know its flavour.

It’s not an act of giving. The garden is his table.

~

I saw his eyes, like polished beads

in fear survey the garden.

Ebony, obsidian, blizzard stone, black diamonds.

I see how they have hardened.

~

I saw the murderous killer come

on velvet paws, crouched low

to snatch her prey in play.

She’s as black as he is.

~

Predators, both of them.

I pray and bang the window.

The bird surprised flies fast away.

Today by me he’s pardoned.

~

The cat casts her amber eyes

in my direction, glaring.

I swear at her and clap my hands.

Yes. I stand in judgement.

~

On my stove the bacon fries.

I crack an egg that’s fertilised.

I vow I’ll be a vegan.

The blackbird is my reason.

© A.Chakir 2023

Day 2 – The Land, for Lizzie Sutton who showed me it.

where the imp is lurking
beside the garden gate
wild garlic plumes of scent
fill the evening air
don’t go down there late

and mind the blood red peony
don’t trust her at all
she’ll lure you with her beauty
and when the pretty daisies come
you won’t hear their call

the garden is a jungle
full of clever traps
to put a bramble in the way
or drag a poor boy off
to troubles and mishaps

regard the summer dog rose
regard the fruiting trees
regard the lovely roses
regard the fountains flow
these are things that please

but when we leave the garden
be sure to hold my hand
I’ll show you where my den is hid
beneath the hawthorn hedge
come with me and be my love
and understand the land

brown pebble

i have a pebble
smooth and brown
with a sheen
but unpolished
it sits secure
in the palm of my hand

we went to the garden
just the two of us
i carried a spade
and the ashes
the day was fair
and no breeze blew
my father made
this sheltered space
down among the roses
and here i dug the heavy earth
no marker for this grave
i picked up a pebble
held it
a secret no-one shared
we said a few words
we stood in silence
my mother turned away

i have a pebble
smooth and brown
with a sheen
but unpolished
it sits secure
warmed in the palm of my hand

small
significant
so easily lost

Transported

The past returns
as I round a curve
in the path by the river.
On warm summer air
the scent of syringa,
sweet, astringent,
delicate, transient,
transcending;
I am five again,
in the garden
by the slope.
I run downhill
my arms outspread

Our house (a letter to my grandfather)

I went to the old house today. For you it was the last house.
I went down into the kitchen garden. It was a tangle, overgrown, and gone to weeds.
The pony shed was falling into ruin. You used to leave your muddied boots out there. They were gone of course.
The pear and apple trees still bare fruit.
The plums look especially good this year.
The rooks still nested in the poplar trees.
I went back in, to the kitchen and the remembered scent of lavender and yeast.
Our big table was gone. Everything was gone. All changed. Modernised beyond repair.
I didn’t venture on the attics stair.
That would have been too much for even me to bear.
Too dark. Too old. Too empty.
No laughter echoed anywhere. Only in my memory.
Old songs. Piano keys. The paintings missing from the hall.
I thought 0f Rumpelstiltskin and naive Goldilocks.
Your versions were so good. Funny and irreverent.
Clouds still passed the window where you told those tales.
The trees still moved in the wind, their branches bouncing up and down.
My life has wandered on. I don’t have the money to buy a house like this.
I sometimes wonder if I might return here on my last breath.
Today I was an intruder for a while.
I left through the side door beside the servants’ stairs.
No-one saw me. No-one cares.
I won’t go again there,
except at night, in dreams.

A Book Illustration

Rebecca Troyer has illustrated one of my poems (the copyright is hers)

 

Isn’t that just lovely ! Here is the poem

The Faerie Garden 

 

Its windows blown by wind and rain,

down the lanes where no-one came,

an ancient ruined cottage stood

with tumbled walls, close by the wood.

 

The cottage garden growing wild

with warring flowers unreconciled

was all a tangle, intertwined,

with paths and borders undefined

 

Columbine closed up the doors,

Ivy crept across the floors.

The roses grew all over-blown

Claiming all the walls their own.

 

Delphiniums, for summer skies,

near the solemn peonies rise.

Hollyhock o’er-towers them all

and Jasmin scents the evenings fall.

 

In this riotous throng of flowers

the faeries come to spend their hours.

They crown themselves with daisy chains

as sunlight spreads its last remains.

 

As evening falls they make their way

with gentle steps at close of day

to the bed they much prefer

beneath the sleepy lavender.

 

The First Monday

The teddy bear is home alone until tonight
An eternity of days spreads out ahead
The garden is forbidden until evening
The time for growing up has just begun
It’s time to say goodbye to childish things
The world is new defined and fenced about
The satchel, stuffed, sits heavy on the floor
Sharp pointed pencils and a clean eraser
The ruler for the measuring of lines
The uniform hangs new and pressed against the door
Faint excitement evaporates in dread
A sickening thought sinks into an empty stomach
The Monday morning sun has just arrived

 

 

 

Miss Smith

in every story book I read
the wise old witch was her
with cheeks like polished apples red
and apron freshly pressed

she smelled of wholesome new baked bread
pickles, jams and herbs
she kept a feathered fleet of hens
beside the well-worn lane

her hat pulled firmly on her head
she wandered down there day and night
in her fathers tattered coat
and big black rubber boots

the neighbours thought her rather odd
but I knew she was kind and good
she gave me Homers Odyssey
and well-worn fairy tales

when I was grown I went back there
to knock upon her door again, no-one came,
no neighbours knew her by her name
the world was not the same

no scent of lavender survives
in ancient drawers of cedar lined
the stove is cold, the windows barred
by swathes of ivy, deep entwined

the hens have gone, no cockerels crow
the hinge hangs rusted on her gate
that leads out to the muddied road
deep rutted by forgotten wheels

the rooks have flown the distant trees
no magpies squawks in mockery
the nettles grow in clusters wild
defense against a vanished child

The House

eight years old
i stood and stared at the floor,
a mosaic pattern
of intertwined flowers,
the pattern always there,
leaning my back against the cold wall
as mirror, clock and chair
and box after box
went out of the open door

where laughter had echoed before
i heard the wind sigh in the rafters
and the creak of the wood on the stair
there was nothing but empty rooms

the flowers drooped their heads in the garden
as i did, in despair, in the hallway
at a death that had come to soon
i saw no adventure ahead
nothing remained
nothing bloomed
after the gardener was dead

Late Fairytale

a loom stands in the corner
the work left incomplete
slippers beside the fire, grown cold
missing the warmth of her feet

this place is full of cobwebs and dust
a broom leans by the wall, forgotten
an emerald bowl holds trinkets, jumbled
does anyone live here at all?

the garden is wild and overgrown
the birds, left unfed, have all flown away
the pool by the fountain is empty and dry
where children used to play

the faeries who hid away in the rain
will return with the nightingale